


Fallout

by littlespider9



Series: Anatomy of a Team [2]
Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt Amir, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Protective Dalton, Protective McGuire, Racial slurs, Team Bonding, Team as Family, islamaphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 14:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlespider9/pseuds/littlespider9
Summary: Twenty-one people are injured, four servicemen are dead, and Amir gets caught in the fallout.





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on Invisible Man, but this plot just grabbed me and wouldn't let me go.
> 
> This one is set a few days post-Moscow Rules and can be read as part of my [Invisible Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131285/chapters/30038565) headcanon or as a standalone.

_Five letter word for-_

“Hey, Top?”

Dalton looked up from where he was struggling over last week’s New York Times crossword puzzle to find the newest member of the team pulling a thin grey jacket on over his standard issue pale green t-shirt and looking at him expectantly.

“I thought I’d go into town for Friday prayers,” Amir continued once he had his team leader’s attention. “Okay if I’m gone for a few hours?”

Even though he hadn’t addressed her, Jaz snorted from her seat next to Dalton at their makeshift kitchen table. “We managed to survive before you got here, so yeah, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“Amir, you don’t have to ask my permission to leave base.” Top said in amusement, ignoring Jaz’s barbs. He would deal with her later.

Amir quirked his head at the team leader. “Well, technically…”

Dalton shrugged and reached for his coffee mug. “Okay, technically I’m supposed to know where you are at all times. Just keep your pager on you and watch your six, yeah?”

“Always,” Amir replied with a grin before righting the collar of his jacket heading out of the team bunker.

Dalton waited until he was sure the operative was out of earshot before giving Jaz a stern look. “What the hell was that? I thought we talked about the attitude.”

“Sorry.” Jaz winced at Dalton’s tone of voice, but he just shook his head.

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” Dalton said. He’d known everyone would need a bit of an adjustment period when Amir first joined the team, but at this point Jaz was the only one being difficult. Enough was enough. “You want Amir to be a better team player? Then maybe you should show him what that looks like.”

 

\--

 

Nine hours later and Dalton was still sitting at the kitchen table, having traded the newspaper for the seemingly never-ending stack of paperwork that came with being team leader. With a sigh, Dalton rubbed at his beard and moved on to the next form.

“Hey, Top, you seen Amir?” McGuire asked, wandering into the bunker to grab a cool water bottle from their battered refrigerator.

“He went into town,” Preach answered for the team leader as he walked out of their sleeping quarters, shower gear in tow. “Friday prayers.”

McGuire’s face fell into a pout. “Damn. Jaz just beat me at horseshoes for the millionth time and I could really use a win right now. Top, you wanna play?”

Dalton raised an eyebrow at his medic and snorted. “Funny.”

“I thought so,” McGuire shrugged, smirking.

“Hey, McG, what’s the hold up?” A smirking Jaz poked her head in the door. “Top didn’t want to play?”

“No,” McGuire pouted. “And Amir’s not back yet.”

“For the record, I’m very good at horseshoes,” Dalton cut in. When everyone gave him a skeptical look, even Preach, the team leader raised his hands defensively. “What? I am!”

“Sure you are, Top.”

“If I were you, I’d just settle for being the best at everything else and leave it at that,” Preach commented with a smirk as he ducked out of the bunker.

“Seriously though,” Jaz commented, stepping into the bunker and swiping McGuire’s water bottle. “Amir’s not back yet? He’s going to miss curfew.”

That comment had Dalton frowning down at his watch. 8:15 p.m. Since the beach bombing two weeks ago, the base had placed a 9:00 p.m. curfew on anyone entering or exiting the base. Personnel who didn’t make it in time were considered AWOL until morning and then subject to a formal reprimand. After such a direct attack on American servicemen, the higher ups were taking base security extremely seriously.

A warning tingle started to work its way up Dalton’s spine.

“Forget curfew, aren’t prayers at noon?” McGuire wondered aloud as he collapsed onto the couch. “He should’ve been back hours ago.”

And that, Top decided, was actually more concerning. Amir would have let the team know if he was going to be gone longer than expected and, if Dalton remembered correctly, the operative said he’d only be gone a few hours. The tingle got worse.

Aware that his teammates were now looking at him for input, Dalton rose from his seat and strode over to their little communications station. Reaching for the transmitter that sat next to their secure sat comm, Dalton entered the number for Amir’s pager and transmitted the code for “sitrep.” If the operative was able, he should’ve responded immediately.

When no response came through after a tense thirty seconds, Dalton had to admit that he was officially concerned. He looked over at McGuire. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Oh, come on, don’t you think you guys are overreacting? He’s an operative, he can handle himself.” Jaz pointed out. The two men ignored her, McGuire pulling a t-shirt on and Dalton re-tying the laces on his boots. Both men took the time to fit their handgun holsters onto their belts before heading into the fading light. Sounding exasperated, Jaz called after them. “If all three of you get locked out and written up, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

The two men walked in silence for a minute, their boots crunching loudly on the densely packed dirt. McGuire threw his team leader a look. “You wanna tell me what you’re thinking?”

“I’m thinking Amir would’ve mentioned if he was planning on staying out all day,” Dalton offered up, scanning their surroundings for any sign of the operative in question. “He also would’ve checked in with me as soon as he got back. Something doesn’t feel right.”

McGuire nodded. “He wouldn’t cut it this close to curfew. Maybe he decided to stop by the commissary or the mess?”

“It’s a start,” Dalton agreed. “Go check in with the entrance detail and see if he’s signed back in yet. I’ll check the commissary.”

This close to curfew, the base was mostly deserted as personnel settled in for a night inside their quarters. All the same, Dalton kept his head on a swivel for anything out of the ordinary. He eyed each shadow suspiciously.  He’d always felt safe on base, assured by both the security protocols and the knowledge that everyone else on base was trained for the worst-case scenario. But after the attack on the beach… Well, Dalton was more than a little disappointed that the attack brought out the worst in some of his fellow servicemen. One incident, in particular, stood out in his mind.

 

_They were all standing outside the clinic after helping transport the injured directly from the beach. Amir has just returned from reuniting the last of the local children with his parents. Almost immediately, there was a uniformed man in his face._

_The man’s face contorted in rage and he shoved Amir hard, knocking the operative back into his team leader. “Was it worth it, you haji bastard? You nearly killed my best friend!”_

_It took Dalton all of two seconds to realize the other man was blaming Amir for the beach bombing. Dalton watched the same realization filter across Amir’s face before the operative just looked tired. The other first responders who’d also gathered outside the clinic stopped talking and the atmosphere turned thick with tension._

_“I’m sorry about your friend,” Amir tried, placatingly._  

_“You’re sorry?” The man scoffed; up this close, Dalton could see the name “Evans” embroidered on his uniform breast pocket. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry you only killed four of us. What was supposed to happen, haji? Were you supposed to go out in a blaze of glory?”_

 

McGuire split away from his team leader to head to the main gates, making a right just before Dalton approached the temporary commissary trailer. As expected, the trailer was closed, its small window dark. In the low light, Dalton almost missed the odd shape protruding from around the side of the trailer.

As he got closer, Dalton realized with a jolt that it was a body.

“McGuire!” Dalton called, jogging towards Amir who lay in a crumpled heap, face down in the dirt beside the temporary trailer. He heard an answering shout somewhere in the distance and only hoped the medic would hurry.

Skidding to a stop on his knees, Dalton fumbled for Amir’s wrist. He was encouraged by the slow and steady heartbeat he found there, though he wanted to wait for McGuire before he moved Amir more than was necessary. The team leader did, however, gently roll the smaller man over so he was on his back before shaking him ever so slightly.

“Amir, hey, Amir.”

“Top, is that-”

Distracted by the sound of McGuire approaching from behind him, Dalton almost missed Amir’s eyes opening a sliver. He caught a glimpse of disoriented brown before the operative suddenly surged upright and struck Dalton hard on the right side of the face. The blow was enough to knock Dalton back onto his butt and send pain blossoming through his nose.

McGuire was suddenly on top of them, grabbing Amir’s arms as the operative started to sag forward with a groan. “Woah, easy. Top, you okay?”

Rising to his feet, Dalton felt gingerly at his nose. From what he could tell, Amir had thrown the somewhat haphazard punch with his left hand. And good thing too, because if that was how he punched with his non-dominant hand when he could barely hold himself upright, Dalton was sure that, under normal circumstances, Amir would’ve broken his nose.

“Worry about him,” Dalton responded, nodding towards Amir, who was swaying disorientedly in McGuire’s grasp. The operative’s curly hair was a mess, his face and clothing covered in dust. Dalton wondered grimly how long Amir had been lying there.

McGuire adjusted his hold to prop the smaller man up against the trailer. “Amir, you with us?”

The operative squinted up at the medic and then back at Dalton. “‘G?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s just us.” McGuire frowned at the slight slur to Amir’s words. His practiced hands were moving, quickly and gently probing at Amir’s cheekbone where a deep purple bruise was blossoming. He rattled off findings to Dalton as he went. “He’s got trauma to the face, possible concussion-”

Amir jerked sharply as the medic’s hand ghosted over the his right shoulder and McGuire murmured an apology. He spent another few seconds investigating Amir’s shoulder before he rocked back on his heels with a sigh. “And a dislocated shoulder. Top-”

“I know.” Dalton’s voice was low and he could feel rage beginning to rise in his belly. He could recognize a restraint injury when he saw one. That meant they were looking for multiple attackers.

“What the hell’d you get yourself into?” McGuire asked, feeling along Amir’s torso for possible rib injuries. It occurred to Dalton that with the possible concussion and the way Amir’s eyelids were starting to droop, the medic wanted to keep him awake and talking. “I swear, I can’t take my eyes off you for five seconds...”

“Di’n’t… S’rry.” The word dissolved into a hiss as McGuire found a particularly tender spot along Amir’s ribcage.

Confident that McGuire had Amir under control, Dalton turned his attention to their surroundings. He and McGuire had disturbed the dirt somewhat when they knelt down beside Amir, but Dalton could still make out several different sets of shoe prints in the immediate area. It looked like they were talking three, maybe four guys. And they were big guys too, judging by the size of each boot print.

Amir’s attackers definitely weren’t black ops, not if they left that many prints behind, but those treads were definitely from military issued boots. And that meant that somewhere on base was a group of soldiers who felt confident enough to not only put the beat down on one of Dalton’s guys, but to then leave him where anyone could have found him. Hell, they hadn’t even tried to hide Amir’s body.  They either didn’t care about getting caught or didn’t think there would be any consequences for their actions. Just the thought made the hairs on the back of Dalton’s neck stand up.

Apparently, McGuire had the same concerns, because he glanced Dalton’s direction hurriedly. “Amir, hey, I need to move you inside so I can get a better look at what we’re dealin’ with. Okay if Top and I get you up?”

Amir gave a soft grunt and apparently that was as much permission as they were going to get, because McGuire nodded at Dalton. The team leader fell smoothly into his role, crouching down besides Amir to position himself under the shorter man’s good arm. On the count of three, he eased Amir up and onto his feet, McGuire hovering near Amir’s dislocated shoulder. Dalton could feel Amir trembling ever so slightly, probably a combination of the strain of his injuries and the cool night air, but to his credit the operative stayed upright.

That is, until they started moving. The trio made it all of five steps before Amir stopped short, his throat working as he leaned forward over his knees. Dalton braced himself for the inevitable and hoped Amir could at least avoid vomiting right on his boots. But the operative simply stood still for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, and then spit. Blood-tinged mucus hit the dirt with a light pattering sound.

Dalton glanced at Amir, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “You good?”

 

\--

 

It was slow going back to Team 7’s bunker. Amir could barely stay on his feet and Dalton had to resort to holding the smaller man up with a tight grip on the back of his belt. McGuire stayed close by their side, buffering Amir’s dislocated shoulder without actually touching it.

As it became clear just how out of it Amir was, McGuire tried to reroute them to the clinic. He wanted Amir to get an MRI to check for any swelling or bleeding in the brain, but the operative flat out refused. Or at least, because he was still having issues stringing together an actual sentence, Amir locked his knees and nearly sent himself and Dalton crashing to the ground as he went full dead weight.

If only for the sake of his team leader’s knees, which took quite a hit trying to keep them upright, McGuire didn’t ask again.

When they finally crossed the threshold, Dalton was practically dragging Amir, who’d finally given in and vomited right outside by the horseshoe stake. McGuire hurried ahead to grab a large bowl from the kitchen, just to be safe.

“Jaz, we need the couch.”

“Look, I was here first.” Jaz explained patiently from her position, stretched out on their hold leather couch reading a thick science fiction novel she’d borrowed from Preach. “You know the rules, you snooze, you-”

“Jaz.” Dalton interrupted, his voice tight with the strain of keeping Amir upright. “Move.”

“Alright, alright, no need to- Amir?” Jaz went from lazy annoyance to sharp attention in less than a second. Standing swiftly, she stepped to the side to allow Dalton to bring Amir around and ease him down onto the soft leather. “What the hell happened?”

“Someone jumped our guy, that’s what happened,” Dalton growled, his voice low and dangerous. The team leader was all but vibrating with anger.

“Jazzy, grab my kit, will you?” McGuire shouldered Dalton aside so he could crouch down in front of Amir, setting the bowl within arm’s reach if he should need it. Under the bunker’s harsh lighting, he realized that Amir’s face wasn’t just bruised, but that the skin on one cheek was raw and torn, as though someone had ground his face into the dirt. The operative’s eyelids drooped again and McGuire slapped his cheek. “Hey, stay awake for me.”

“S’rry.” The operative forced his eyes back open, one eyelid blinking up half a second slower than the other.

Mentally, McGuire scratched “possible concussion” of his injury tally and added “definite concussion” in its place.

Dalton crouched down at McGuire’s side and placed a hand on Amir’s knee. Amir’s leg twitches under the touch. “Amir, I need to know what happened. Do you know who did this to you?”

“Top, can we do this later?” McGuire asked, glancing briefly at his team leader.

When Amir didn’t answer but merely blinked at his teammates, Dalton tried again. “Was it Evans?”

“Top.” McGuire cut him off again, voice firm. “Help me get him out of his jacket.”

It actually did take the two of them to ease Amir’s jacket off of his oddly torqued shoulder. Once they’d managed to strip Amir down his pale green t-shirt, McGuire could see that his right shoulder was torqued at an awkward position, raised upwards and pulled back slightly. Definite restraint injury and a bad one, at that. McGuire had originally intended to strip the operative completely to get a better look at the injury, but just getting him out of his jacket had drained what little color was left in the Amir’s face and the medic decided to just leave it be.

“Here,” Jaz murmured, depositing McGuire’s field med kit at his side. She seemed subdued and he realized somewhere in the back of his mind that the last time one of them had been seriously injured, Elijah had died. He thanked her with a low murmur, trying to tune out the now pacing Dalton and focus on the task at hand.

Examining the dislocated shoulder again, McGuire decided he would need to reset it first. He had no idea when the injury had originally occurred, but the joint was swelling rapidly. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to relocate and the greater the risk of nerve impingement.

“Yeah, that’s no good.” McGuire murmured half to himself and half to Jaz, who was still hovering by McGuire’s elbow. “Can you hold him down?”

“Me?” Jaz looked skeptical and actually took a step back. It was no secret she still hadn’t warmed up to Amir yet, as though doing so would mean betraying Elijah’s memory.

“I could use an extra set of hands,” McGuire said, rubbing at Amir’s shoulder to try and get the overextended muscle to loosen up a bit. Jaz hesitated a second longer before taking her position on Amir’s good side, holding his left arm firmly and pressing her other hand down against his knee. McGuire nodded and adjusted his own grip on Amir’s elbow. “Yeah, that’s good. Amir? Hey, I’m going to set your arm.”

Amir’s gaze, though still unfocused, was at least pointed in McGuire’s general direction. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and McGuire moved swiftly with practiced skill. In one careful motion, he pulled Amir’s arm down slightly before easing it back and up. The swollen joint gave resistance and, with a shake of his head, McGuire tried again.

A second later, there was a loud crack as everything finally realigned.

Just as McGuire had expected after watching Amir take a swing at Dalton earlier, the operative’s self-preservation instinct kicked in almost immediately. Amir moved to swing his good arm up to push the medic away from him, to stop him from inflicting further pain. It probably would’ve worked, too, if Jaz hadn’t maintained a firm grip on his left side. All the same, he jerked his body awkwardly in the attempt before tensing as the unexpected movement pulled at his injuries. A low noise, not quite a moan, escaped Amir’s throat as he dropped his chin towards his chest, trying to breathe through the pain.

McGuire gave Amir a second to recover before probing at the shoulder again, making sure it was set properly and that he didn’t feel any breaks in Amir’s collarbone. “You good?”

“No need to be brave for me,” Jaz added, pulling back from Amir slightly. “Preach dislocated his elbow last year and he cussed like a sailor.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault McG doesn’t give you any warning.” Preach had finally returned from the showers, his damp towel slung over his shoulders as he took in the state of his team. Unlike Jaz, he didn’t demand to know what happened, although he did look concerned. “Anything I can do to help?”

Good old Preach. The man was always the calm in the middle of the storm. McGuire nodded towards the fridge, noticing vaguely that Dalton had disappeared. “Grab some ice. We’ve gotta get this swelling down. Amir, can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

Amir nodded and raised his head slowly. McGuire was pleased to note that his eyes looked clearer, as though the pain had snapped him back to attention. The operative wiggled the fingers of his right hand and McGuire noticed for the first time that his knuckles were cracked and bleeding. The medic fished the penlight out of his kit and ran the tip of it across Amir’s palm. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.” Amir’s voice was rough and he licked at his dry lips.

McGuire noticed the motion as he reached into his kit to grab a pair of latex gloves. “Let me clean up your face and then you can have some water and painkillers.”

“No drugs.” Amir was definitely starting to feel better if his stubborn streak was already raising its ugly head.

Jaz didn’t pull any punches. “Don’t be a dumbass. Even with the drugs, you’re still going to feel like one massive bruise.”

“Besides,” McGuire added, moving one finger back and forth in front of Amir’s face. The operative did his best to follow him, but when McGuire finally dropped his finger, Amir closed his eyes with a wince. He probably had one hell of a headache, even if he wasn’t complaining. “With how hard you got hit, you can’t have anything stronger than a couple of Tylenol.”

Preach returned a minute later with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. He handed the peas over to McGuire, who pressed the bag onto Amir’s reset shoulder and returned his attention to Amir’s black eye, pleased to find that his cheekbone hadn’t been fractured. The bag of peas slipped slightly and Amir grimaced as he grabbed at it with his good hand. McGuire made another mental note to check his ribs.

“You wanna tell us what happened?” McGuire asked casually, ripping open an alcohol wipe and beginning to clean some of the blood and dirt off of Amir’s face. He tried to be gentle, especially where chunks of dirt were embedded in a particularly raw patch of skin.

Amir was trying not to look McGuire in the eye, which was a difficult task considering the medic was no more than four inches from his face. “Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice,” was Preach’s immediate, soothing answer.

“Not when it comes to your safety.” Dalton came striding back into the team bunker, shoving a sat phone into his back pocket. He seemed to have calmed down somewhat, though there was still a definite edge to his voice. Dalton crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Amir expectantly. “When it comes to the safety of my team, I need to know everything that I can. So I’ll ask you again, Amir, what happened?”

Still, Amir hesitated. “It’s not a big deal.”

This time it was McGuire who snorted. “Sure, I mean, they only smashed up your face, dislocated your shoulder…”

“They’re just gonna keep asking,” Jaz warned Amir, reclining on the couch beside him. “Like it or not, that’s just part of being on this team.”

That seemed to strike a cord in Amir and, watching as some of the tension bled out of the man’s bruised face, McGuire was reminded of his own conversation with Amir about the team. On Team 7, being teammates meant they had each other’s backs for better or for worse.

“I was on my way back from prayers,” Amir spoke softly, looking pointedly down at his lap and not at his teammates. “I met Evans along the way.”

Dalton’s whole face seemed to tighten into a stern frown, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “How many guys were with him?”

“Uh, two, maybe three?”

“Amir, this is important. I need you to be specific.” Dalton urged, though McGuire thought he looked a little apologetic, especially when Amir winced and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“I know, ‘m trying.” Amir closed his eyes and breathed, thinking. “There must’ve been three, ‘cause there were two with Evans when he approached me and then something hit me from behind-”

Amir raised a hand to feel the back of his head and, sure enough, his fingers came away tinged red. McGuire was there in an instant, pressing a clean gauze square against the slight split and tearing open an alcohol wipe with his teeth. Jaz held his pen light for him as he cleaned and examined the wound.

“It’s not too bad,” McGuire reported to Dalton, who was looking at him expectantly. “He barely split the skin. It’ll need maybe two stitches, tops.”

Dalton nodded, the slightest bit of relief seeping into his features. “Amir, you said Evans approached you. Did he say anything to you?”

Amir winced as McGuire applied two efficient stitches to the small gash on the back of his head. “Yeah, he said, uh, he said Holland died.”

At that, Dalton sighed and shook his head. “Shit.”

McGuire remembered Holland from the attack on the beach, had helped to stabilize him for transport. He’d been the closest to the blast and had taken a wad of shrapnel to the jugular. Between the blood loss and the blast lung, the doctors on base had been forced to put Holland in a medically induced coma. As far as McGuire was concerned, it was a miracle the man had lasted even this long.

The medic also recalled there had been some incident with Amir and Evans outside of the clinic. McGuire had been inside helping triage other victims from the beach, but Preach had filled him in on the details. Something about Evans calling Amir a Haji and accusing him of helping orchestrate the beach attack. According to Preach, the specialist had been looking for a fight and Amir merely stood his ground.

From what he understood, Evans and Holland had come up from basic together. They were inseparable and McGuire hated that he knew how it felt to lose someone like that, someone who was practically your brother. Hell, he’d felt that way when Elijah had died.

Still, there was no scenario in which taking out your grief on a fellow service member was even remotely okay.

McGuire turned to ask a question and that’s when he noticed Amir’s face was pinched and his eyelids had started to droop again.

“Alright,” McGuire decided, crumbling up the discarded gauze packaging. “That’s enough. Top, you can finish your interrogation tomorrow.”

“I’ll get his pillow,” Preach volunteered, heading for their sleeping quarters. It didn’t escape McGuire’s notice that the tech expert silently left a fresh water bottle and the Tylenol bottle on the coffee table.

Amir frowned after him in tired confusion. “Wait, I-”

“Not a chance,” McGuire preempted, shooing Jaz off the couch. “You’re gonna sleep right here so one of us can keep an eye on you.”

Amir might have argued if he wasn’t rapidly losing his battle with sleep. As it was, he took the offered Tylenol without complaint, though he ignored McGuire’s offer to help with the water bottle and ended up spilling a little down his front as he tried to drink with his non-dominant hand. Amir did, however, let McGuire fit his arm and reset shoulder with a sling, pull off his shoes, and help him swing his legs up so he could lie back on the couch. By the time Preach returned with his pillow, Amir was already dozing and McGuire carefully eased the pillow under his head.

A second later, Jaz appeared with a blanket, which she deposited gently on Amir while being very careful not to meet McGuire’s eye.

“You sure you don’t want me to wrap your ribs?” McGuire asked, feeling along Amir’s torso again. The operative shook his head. “Any other injuries I should be worried about?”

Another shake of the head.

“What the about the blood from earlier?”

The operative mumbled something in Arabic and Jaz snorted a laugh. McGuire sighed; he could understand basic Arabic, but hadn’t gotten the  hang of Amir’s Lebanese accent yet. “What’d he say?”

“He said he bit his tongue.” Jaz chuckled. Rescuing her book from their makeshift coffee table, Jaz sank down onto the armchair. “Go clean up. I’ll take first watch.”

McGuire raised his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe she was warming up to Amir after all. “You sure? He needs to be woken up-”

“-every two hours. If he can’t answer my questions, I’ll come get you,” Jaz answered, cutting McGuire off with a fond yet exasperated look. “This isn’t my first rodeo, McG.”

“Right, sorry.” McGuire busied himself with packing up his kit and throwing out the now bloody gloves and alcohol wipes. As he packed up, he tried to shove down the nervous energy that was thrumming in his gut. McGuire felt like his nerves were throbbing, his senses on hyper alert. In the field, this rush of energy was what kept him going, what kept injured teammates alive. Here on base, it just made McGuire feel fidgety and tense. He wasn’t sure what would help more, a long shower or a run.

It wasn’t until he was stowing his kit back in lockup that something occurred to him.

“Hey, Jaz. When you ask him a question, make sure he answers in English.”

 

\--

 

For the first five minutes after he woke up, Dalton was actually able to convince himself not to confront Evans. Sure, he had a few choice words for the specialist, but hell, the man’s best friend had just died.

And then Dalton went out into the bunker, where Jaz was propping Amir upright so McGuire could brace his ribs with a rib belt. The operative’s black eye had practically swollen shut and just seeing his arm in a sling pissed Dalton off.

Screw sympathy. He was going to rip Evans’ head off.

“Everything okay?” Dalton asked cautiously as he approached the group on the couch.

McGuire glanced up at the team leader and nodded. “Yeah. His breathing was getting a little rough, so I wanted to give his ribs a little extra support. I don’t think any of them are broken, but this should help with the bruising.”

Amir watched as McGuire secured the rib belt and tested the tightness through his one good eye. He spoke in a low murmur. “Thanks.”

“Hey, man, don’t worry about it,” McGuire responded casually, though Dalton could tell that the medic did not like seeing a member of his team in this state. McGuire pointed to the plate of toast sitting on the plate on Jaz’s lap. “Let’s see if you can keep that and some water down, and then you can have some more Tylenol.”

The operative hummed in response, his manner far more subdued than the stubbornness that had made an appearance the previous evening. Patting his good shoulder gently, McGuire stood and followed Dalton into the kitchen area.

“He’s been sick?”

“Once last night, once this morning,” McGuire confirmed, looking over Dalton’s shoulder at the couch was Jaz was quietly encouraging Amir to finish at least one piece of toast. “It’s the concussion. It’s giving him vertigo and making him nauseous.”

Dalton sighed. “Do you think we need to take him to the clinic?”

McGuire frowned and shook his head. “Nah, he’d probably just hurt himself more resisting. He’s awake, he’s talking, he doesn’t have any significant memory loss. The vertigo should pass eventually. I was able to relocate his shoulder and there’s no sign of any nerve impingement. There’s nothing they can do for him in the clinic that I can’t do for him here.”

“Alright,” Dalton nodded in acquiescence. There was a reason he trusted McGuire with his life; the man was a damn fine medic. “I want to keep this in house for now, until we’ve figured out who the other three attackers were.”

“You gonna go talk to Evans?”

“He picked the wrong team to fuck with,” was Dalton’s growl of a reply. He eyed McGuire. “You wanna come?”

Dalton could see the fire in McGuire’s eyes, the anger that someone would do this to a member of his team. The medic hesitated and flexed his left wrist in its supportive brace. “Nah, I think I’ll sit this one out. I wanna keep an eye on Amir and besides, for the kind of ‘talking’ I want to do, I need both hands.”

“I’ll go.”

The two men looked at Jaz in surprise as she suddenly appeared at Dalton’s elbow. McGuire frowned at her. “I thought you were helping Amir.”

Jaz shrugged, though she did glance back at her injured teammate as he sipped tentatively at a bottle of water. “He said he couldn’t eat with me watching him. I’m serious, Top, I’ll go. He’s my teammate, too.”

Dalton wasn’t sure if Jaz was even aware of what she just said, but he couldn’t help but give a small a smile. It looked like at least one good thing had come out of this whole mess. “Okay, then. We’ve got a man to catch.”

 

\--

 

It wasn’t too hard to find Evans, even in the crowd of similarly-uniformed bodies filling the mess. His bottom lip was split and swollen and dark purple bruising colored his jawline, making the man stand out like a sore thumb. Dalton couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride and satisfaction.

_‘Atta boy, Amir._

Dalton simply stared at Evans until the man looked up and caught his eye. Almost immediately, the infantryman blanched. Dalton smirked as Evans stood hurriedly, gathering his tray even though his plate was more than half full. Evans caught Dalton’s eye one last time before trying to disappear into the crowd of bodies towards the back entrance.

“Jaz, one tango heading your way.” Dalton spoke into his comm.

“Copy that,” came the crisp reply.

By the time Dalton walked around the back of the mess, Jaz had Evans cornered, leaning casually enough against the wall with one arm while simultaneously blocking his path. She was probably enjoying this too much, Dalton thought, as she sent him a wide grin.

“Top, guess who I just ran into.” Jaz quipped, turning her smile on Evans who visibly struggled not to shrink back from the sniper. “Specialist Matthew Evans.”

“Well, how about that,” Dalton replied evenly with a tight smile of his own. “Just the man we were looking for.”

They ended up taking Evans out to one of the older hangers that was used as more of a catch-all storage facility. Evans looked on edge as he followed Dalton into the hanger and shifted uneasily when Jaz shut the door behind them with a loud clang. Dalton let the tense silence linger for a moment longer, watching as a single bead of sweat ran down Evans’ temple.

Dalton cleared his throat. “You know who we are?”

Albeit reluctantly, Evans nodded. His eyes darted to the door. “You’re from one of the Omega teams. Special ops.”

“That’s right,” Dalton confirmed as he started to pace around Evans in a slow circle. “And I’m assuming you know what we want.”

Evans swallowed and gave a choppy shrug. “World peace? The Patriots to win another Super Bowl?”

Under any other circumstances, Dalton might have been amused. As it was, he felt what little patience he had evaporate and stepped closer to Evans, getting in his space. “Cut the crap. You come after a member of my team, you come after me.”

“Let me guess, that filthy little haji belonged to you?” Evans spat, giving up all pretense of innocence. His brown eyes flashed and the veins in his neck bulged as his temper spiked.

Dalton snapped. In the blink of an eye, he had Evans’ arm twisted roughly behind his back and used it to slam him face first against the rough concrete wall. Dalton moved closer so he could growl right in Evans’ ear.  “That _haji_ has given up more than you could ever know to keep you, me, and everybody back home safe. Try and show a little respect.”

“Respect?” Evans barked a laugh; it came out sounding a little hysterical. “He tried to kill us, tried to kill those kids. You’re lucky he hasn’t slit your throat in in your sleep!”

Jaz was suddenly next to Dalton, grabbing Evan’s shirt and spinning him roughly around and out of Dalton’s grip. The infantryman grunted as his head struck the concrete wall again as Jaz pinned him in place with a forearm against his windpipe. “How’d you like it if I slit yours?”

Dalton let Evans struggle for a moment against the pressure on his windpipe, wheezing harshly before tapping Jaz twice on the shoulder. Reluctantly, she eased up on Evan’s neck, though she kept him pinned against the wall. Dalton nodded at her in approval.

Realistically, Dalton knew that even if it made him feel better, beating Evans to a pulp wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t keep Amir safe the next time Evans lost his temper and it sure as hell wouldn’t do Dalton any good to stoop to the younger man’s level. No, the team leader wanted to keep Evans away from his team for good.

So, instead of punching the infantryman right in the mouth like he wanted to, Dalton pulled a heavy crate out into the open space and tapped it with his boot. “Have a seat.”

Not that Evans had any kind of choice, because Jaz frog-marched him over to the crate before roughly forcing him down into sit. The infantryman glared up at them, though Dalton could see a shadow of nervousness in his eyes.

Reaching into his back pocket, Dalton pulled out a small spiral notebook and a pen and held it out in front of Evans’ face. “You’re going to write down exactly what happened last night. I want times, names of the guys with you, everything.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t,” Dalton said casually, almost as though he was discussing the scores of last night’s ball game, “I’m going to step outside and leave you here with Sergeant Kahn. And believe me, she’ll give you with a lot worse than a dislocated shoulder.”

Evans glanced at Jaz, who glared down at him impassively, her dark eyes burning. Shifting away from her on the crate, Evans all but ripped the notebook out of Dalton’s hands. Even as he flipped the notebook open, he spat at Dalton’s feet angrily. “Fuck you guys.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re not the only one around here who’s lost someone who care about,” Dalton replied in a warning tone, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re just the guy who thought that was a good enough excuse to assault a one of the good guys. Start writing.”

 

\--

 

Two days later, Dalton got a call from one very pissed off Deputy Director Patricia Campbell. Even through the grainy connection of their sat comm, Dalton could tell the Deputy Director was bristling with irritation. He barely got out a “Good morning” before she pounced on him.

“Dalton, you want to tell me why you put your team on standby without my authorization? There was an incident in Brussels over the weekend that we really could’ve used you on.”

Some chucklehead had locked himself inside a Brussels post office and threatened to blow himself up if the government didn’t give into his demands. Dalton nodded. “Yeah, I saw that on the news.”

Patricia glared at him through the screen. “It wouldn’t have been on the news at all if you guys had been out there instead of Team 2.”

Ouch. Dalton almost felt like he needed to defend Team 2’s honor. Almost. Instead, he sighed. “There was an incident with Amir.”

“Amir?” Patricia repeated like she hadn’t heard quite right. “McGuire, I’d expect. You, maybe. But Amir? What the hell happened?”

Obviously, she hadn’t seen his email yet. Rubbing at his beard, Dalton summarized briefly. “Some infantry guys corned him. They got him pretty good.”

“Shit.” The Deputy Director removed her glasses and rubbed at one eye. “Well, let me see him.”

That was unexpected. Dalton hesitated, glancing towards their sleeping quarters where Amir was resting. “Uh, I don’t think-”

“Look, I don’t really care what either of you wants right now,” Patricia cut him off quickly, shoving her glasses back on. “Amir’s under my authority, which means it’s my job to bring him home in one piece. So I’d appreciate if you’d get him for me.”

Dalton couldn’t very well ignore that, so he strode quietly into their sleeping quarters. He found Amir dozing lightly in his bunk; McGuire said the more rest he got the faster he’d come back from the concussion. Feeling slightly guilty, Top spoke softly. “Amir.”

The operative’s situational awareness was definitely coming back because almost instantly, the his eyes flickered open. Or rather, his left eye flickered open as his right eye was still swollen and stuck at half mast. “Top?”

“Sorry, buddy,” Dalton apologized. Although the concussion symptoms were starting to go away, Amir still looked like crap. “Hey, I’ve got Deputy Director Campbell on the line and she’d really like to see you. You know, to make sure you’re still in one piece and all that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Amir mumbled, slowly swinging his legs over the side of his bed and standing a little stiffly. At least the vertigo was gone and he could move around more.

By the time they finally got back out to the sat comm, Campbell looked thoroughly irritated that it had taken them so long. Or at least, she did until she got a good look at Amir: his skinned cheekbone, swollen eye, and general collection of bruises. Eyeing the sling he wore, Campbell let out a slow breath. “Shit, they did get you good.”

Amir didn’t seem to know what to say, so he just nodded mutely. Dalton wondered briefly if that soft, concerned look on Campbell’s face was the look she’d previously reserved just for her son.

And then the softness was gone, replaced with something of dry smile as Campbell remarked, “You said they were infantry? Maybe we need to do a refresher on hand to hand combat.”

That got an actual laugh from Amir and for the first time in days, Dalton felt the little knot of tension in his stomach ease up. The team leader decided he wouldn’t mention that when the operative smiled, it just made his swollen eye look even worse.

“You’re alright?” The sincerity in Campbell’s voice struck Dalton and he was reminded, yet again, how lucky they were to work for this woman who saw them as more than just faceless means to an end.

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” was Amir’s evasive yet honest answer. It drew out another smile from the Deputy Director.

“Good. Rest up, okay?” Amir nodded again and then, after glancing at Dalton to make sure he was no longer needed, quietly excused himself. Campbell watched the operative leave with a rather fond look before turning back to Dalton, all business. “Who was it?

“Specialist Matthew Evans,” Top paused. This part still made him feel sick. “He, uh, thought Amir was behind the attack on the beach.”

Campbell sighed and dropped her head into her hands. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dalton wished he was. “I believe his exact words were, ‘Fuck you, you haji spy.’”

“I’m assuming you already handled it?”

“We had a bit of a talk,” Dalton nodded. “And he was kind enough to provide us with a detailed confession.”

Campbell snorted and raised her head. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t even have to ask. You’ll send me a report?”

“It should already be in your inbox.” Dalton looked at his boss through the sat comm screen as she chewed on her thumbnail. Even here, halfway across the world, he could see the gears in her head turning. “Do I even want to know what you’re going to do?”

Campbell’s face hardened. “Nobody fucks with my team, Dalton. You know that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

\--

 

“How long to I have to wear this?” Amir wanted to know as he shifted uncomfortably in the sling McGuire had somehow managed to bully him into wearing.

“Until I say you can take it off,” McGuire replied matter of factly, ignoring Amir’s scowl. The two men sat outside on top of their picnic table, McGuire restocking his field kit and Amir watching Dalton try to prove to Preach and Jaz that he was, in fact, good at horseshoes. Three days had passed since Amir was attacked and his swollen eye had finally gone down, his bruises beginning to fade from a deep purple to a sickly bluish-green.

Once they got over his initial stubbornness, Amir was actually a very good patient. He seemed embarrassed by the whole situation and caught on quickly that if he just did what McG asked right away, the team didn’t hover so much. He didn’t like being the center of attention and he seemed unsure of how to handle his teammate’s concern.

And if McGuire had to listen to Amir apologize one more time for something that _was not his fault_ , the medic might actually go insane.

“You hear what Top said this morning?” McGuire asked as he double-checked his pen light and stowed it back in its compartment. “They’re shipping Evans back stateside.”

Amir went very still beside the medic. “Are they discharging him?”

McGuire shrugged. “Dunno. Top said something about reevaluating his fitness for duty. You know, what with being an asshole bigot and all that.”

“They shouldn’t do that,” Amir said suddenly, the words kind of falling out of his mouth in a jumble. “He wasn’t a bad soldier, he just-”

If anyone should’ve been happy about Evans’ fate, it was Amir. McGuire frowned at his teammate in confusion. “Hey, stop. Don’t defend him.”

“Why not?” Amir sounded frustrated, his usually slight accent thicker. “His best friend just died and he wasn’t- he wasn’t wrong, McG. There are terrorists out there who tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, well, he was wrong about you.” McGuire said firmly with a note of finality. “You’re a lot of things, Amir. Frustrating, stubborn… but you’re not a terrorist.”

“I played one for long enough.”

And there, McGuire realized, was the real heart of the problem. He didn’t know a whole lot about Amir’s time undercover, but he could make an educated guess that the operative has seen some bad shit. Hell, maybe he had even participated in some of it. But where McGuire saw a man given the worst possible assignment, Amir had somehow twisted it in his brain and considered himself part of the problem.

“Did I mention you can be a real dumbass?” McGuire asked, shaking head in disbelief. “I don’t care how long you were under with ISIS. Hell, I don’t even care what you did once you got there. All that matters is why you did it.”

“Why?” Amir hesitated, as though he was weighing his words carefully. “I did… I did what I did undercover because it was about the bigger picture. Because by choosing to do what I did, I could save hundreds, thousands.”

Maybe someday Amir would feel comfortable enough to share with McGuire exactly what he had done undercover. For now, McGuire zipped his kit closed and shrugged at the shorter man. “I dunno, man, but that sure as hell doesn’t sound like a terrorist to me.”

  



End file.
